A Fisher's Tale
by EastSideIndie
Summary: Set in the years before Katniss Everdeen was inciting rebellion, Adeline Meer is simply trying to get through her very last Reaping. At eighteen, she is still mourning the loss off her older brother seven years earlier when he was selected as District Four's Tribute. On top of all this, she is trying to navigate a strange love affair with a kind young Peacekeeper.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any content related to or directly used in The Hunger Games trilogy.

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**Chapter 1**

The morning is surprisingly cool for this time of year, and I hesitate for only a fraction of a second before dropping my bundle and taking off at a run down the dock. When I hit the water, the icy cold freezes the breath in my lungs but I let myself sink like a stone until even I can't stay under any longer. I push myself to the surface and am immediately taken under again by a wave. This is the most calming place in the district. I dig my toes deep into the soft cool mud on the basin floor, and pass my hands over the drifting sea weed. I once broke the district record for holding my breath under water. I gently sway along with the sea weed, and stay under as long as I can. The cold water blocks out the sounds of life above, and lulls me into a sense of security, no matter how false.

We aren't exactly encouraged to swim recreationally as children, but there wouldn't be any logic in sticking kids on work boats that have never learned. So our school time is divided into learning net making and repair, fishing, swimming, and the weekly lesson of Panam's history. The swimming lessons are the closest thing to fun that we have here, and are always the most popular class. It tends to make you forget that you're being groomed for a life of intense physical labour. The adults here are weathered, either from hours spent on the open water, hauling in nets or spearing the larger more deadly sea creatures, or their hands are gnarled and arthritic from decades of net making and tying knots. Even the work in the processing plant is taxing, standing for twelve hours a day to shell and gut seafood that will be sent to the Capitol. There are other jobs in the district, but none of them are pleasant. The lucky ones own the town shops which are inherited through members of the family. But even they are not idle. Laziness is not a trait that is encouraged here.

Under the water I tuck myself into a ball and do a somersault before making my way back to the dock and hauling myself up. I can hear the work horn blasting, but I lay on the worn wooden planks for a moment anyway. Men and women will only just be emerging from their homes as they make their way to the harbour, and I'm not due on the boat for another fifteen minutes at least. The workload has been doubled in the past week and will not die down for weeks to come. With the Reaping tomorrow the Capitol has been, and will be, in demand of more seafood. I guess the Games offer more reason for parties and therefore more food, because this time of year is always very busy for us. Sometimes during the lead-up to the Games, you catch glimpses of the luxuries the Capitol is afforded. Just this year, during the Victory Tour, the last year's victor was showing off his talent for cooking. When he made it to the Capitol, he cooked a fine televised dinner for a panel of (who I'm assuming were) very influential people. The lush spread had included lobsters and shellfish from Four. As I watched, I couldn't help but wonder if I had handled any of them – if my hands had sent any of that food which we are so often denied here. We can't just take home what we catch; we have to pay for it. And shellfish is the most expensive. During a particularly tough year as a child, I can recall living off of primarily fish head stews because they are one of the cheapest things to buy.

When I hear the approaching feet of fellow District Four citizens, I rise and put on the clothing I had dropped on the dock. My under things soak through the cotton pants and shirt, but I don't care. When the crowd of about twenty people rounds the bend, I pad down the dock to join them. My father sees me and frowns disapprovingly at my sopping wet hair. We are technically not allowed to go swimming whenever the mood strikes us, but this close to the Reaping there is usually a bit of leniency from the Peacekeepers. The two that patrol that section of the waterfront had pointedly ignored me this morning, and I had not been about to question them on it. Pulling my long blonde hair off my neck and into a ponytail, I fall into step with my father and bump his shoulder with mine. We are the same height, which is at least a head taller than most of the people around us.

"Think we'll bag old White Fin today?" I ask, more cheery than is absolutely necessary.

My father gives me his usual sceptical look. It's like he's asking himself if I really am his. I come from a family of stoic silent types; the kind of people that do their jobs and keep to themselves during the off hours of the day. As of seven years ago there was even less of a reason to be happy when my older brother Marcus was called at the Reaping. He was twelve. I won't lie and say it didn't destroy me; it destroyed all of us. When he died during the first minutes of the initial Bloodbath, we shut ourselves inside our house and didn't come out for the entire time we were given to grieve. Two days where my parents weren't expected at the harbour. Two days that I didn't have to drag myself to school. I couldn't stand seeing them like that, and I couldn't handle the sympathetic looks from our neighbours who were really just thankful it wasn't their kid chosen. So eventually I returned back to my cheery old self. I work hard to put smiles on my parents' faces, and even harder to make them laugh. I have never been as sombre as the rest of them; have always tried to make the best of every situation. I'm not a nut case, I'm not truly ecstatically happy about hauling net all day or facing the Reaping every year, but I just don't see the point in being miserable. The Capitol shouldn't be able to take everything away from us.

"That shark will be the death of me," my father answers, referring to the great white that has been dogging our fishing boats for the past week or so. But he's got the smallest of smiles on his face and with a squeeze of his large calloused hand I silently reassure him that I am his. We make our way to the harbour and my father and one of our crew members, Gunter, discuss the plans for the workday.

Three days ago our fishing boat was given instructions to kill the shark. We came close yesterday, me and my father, but our line snapped and he got away. Today we are out for hours as our crew circles the area we last saw him in, and it isn't until we are about to turn in that Gunter sights him within minutes and shouts out for us to get ready. My father, Gunter and another man are prepared today. As White Fin snaps up the line hooked with fish chum, I stand ready with my trident perched precariously on the side of the boat. I am the youngest and only female on our boat, though women are not uncommon out on the boats. But it's my skills with the trident that have awarded me a spot on my father's crew at an age when most girls are hauling or weaving nets. Without being arrogant, I have become invaluable to the large fish harpooning. As I set my sights on White Fin I javelin the hefty weapon and aim true, spearing the great white below the skull. My father and the other two crew members begin to haul him in, but my trident becomes tangled in the line and falls into the water where it begins to sink.

I'm not thinking, and later I attribute this to the fact that the Games and the Reaping have been fogging up my mind lately no matter how earnestly I try to ignore them. All I can think about is how the weighty cost of that weapon is going to be garnished from my wages if I don't bring it back. I would never be able to afford it. So, without much consideration for the dangers I'm putting myself in, I dive off the boat after my trident before it sinks into oblivion. There are a few problems with this. Namely, that in spilling copious amounts of White Fin's blood we have now attracted others of his kind to come darting around our boat looking for an easy meal. For another, the shark blood has made visibility next to non-existent. I reach out blindly and feel a sharp pain in my hand, seeing the tell-tale fin of a shark pass beneath me at the very last moment. And as this deadly adversary swims on, either not feeling my touch or not caring, I see my trident and grab for it. The swim back up to the surface is becoming perilous. I count three sharks swarming around me but there could easily be more. Suddenly, as I kick upward, I am looking into the gaping toothy mouth of a beast that is blinded by its hunger. I spear at it, and use the momentum to push myself up faster, the trident coming loose from the shark's mouth as I go. When I break through the surface, netting is instantly dropped on top of me and I have enough sense to grab hold of it.

I am pulled up to safety. I imagine sharks snapping at my heels but the truth is that they have turned on the one I injured and are now busy feasting on their brother. I'm dragged up over the side of the boat and I land in a coughing, tangled mess. The bloodied water has left me dripping pink and my clothes are stained. But as I lay there trying to regain my breath, looking into the eyes of my father who can't seem to decide whether he should hug me or throttle me, I let go of the trident and laugh. The laugh isn't one of joy; it's one of near-hysteric realization.

That was _very_ stupid.

We bring the boat in to add White Fin to the shipment of trucks that brings our catch to the processing plant. The catch sparks praise and some jealousy from other workers, but word of my adventure spreads like wildfire. At first I laugh off most of the comments, still shaken from the experience, but after a while I begin to dread just how far the story has travelled. My mother is going to kill me when I get home. I linger at the harbour as long as I dare, allowing Gunter to bandage the gash on my hand. As it is, when my father and I walk through the door she is grim faced and furious with both of us. I immediately get torn into.

"What on earth were you thinking?" she doesn't wait for an answer and ploughs on ahead. "Were you trying to get yourself killed? For what? A piece of metal?"

She knows as well as I do how much that 'piece of metal' would have cost our family had I let it sink to the bottom of the sea. But I say nothing and try to look contrite. Now is not the time to turn on my charm. My mother has always been the harder of the two of them to crack, and she is in no mood to joke around now. My father takes the same tongue lashing in silence, and simply sits at the rickety old table filling his pipe. Tobacco is such a rarity that he only smokes it on special occasions, so I'm shocked when he pulls it out. Apparently me not dying means he gets to reward himself. My mother ignores this and lets us both have it for a good twenty minutes before she orders me to take care of dinner while she lies down. I prepare the food without complaint because I know how hard it must have been for her to hear the story second hand. I really could have died, and if I had my parents would be childless. Bad enough that the Reaping is tomorrow and fresh on everyone's minds. And while I've managed to stay out of the Games this long, none of us can wait until tomorrow is over because this is the last year I have to enter. Marcus was a year older than me, so the year after he died my name went directly into the lottery. Every year since then has been absolute hell for us; for a lot of other families too. Gunter from our fishing crew has lost two of his own children to the Games, and even the ones that win are never the same.

My thoughts turn to one of the victors, Annie, who went mad before she ever even won. She's my age. She keeps to the Victors' Village and I've heard that she roams the beaches there and tries to drown herself when Finnick Odair, another champion, isn't around to stop her. How can you blame her? Of the other winners we've had, most have battled depression, substance abuse, and one committed suicide before I was born. None come back the way they left. Megs, for example, is in her eighties and has a few screws loose herself. I often see her shuffling around town picking up bits and pieces of trash. Even though she has more money than the rest of us, on her spare time she makes hooks and flies out of the garbage she scavenges and sells it on market day. My father once told me that the money she makes is given to the poorer families whose children have perished in the Games. That means at some point we have been on the receiving end of her kindness, but I have no memory of it.

That night after a silent and tense dinner, I crawl into the bed I once shared with Marcus. This could be the last time I have to sit through a Reaping. This time tomorrow I will either be celebrating with my family or on my way to the Capitol. I find that my head is too full of 'what-ifs' to sleep and I silently slip out of my bedroom to sit outside. There are more Peacekeepers around than usual and I don't dare try and make my way to the dock I dove from this morning. I would be publicly flogged before the Reaping and then expected to stand through it. Any movement at this time of night would be a considered suspicious. To one side of us the sea, around the rest of us forests or open expanses of grass fields; surrounding everything – an electric fence. The barrier in the water isn't electrified, but it's deadly. The whole inner side is barbed. There are boat crews whose job it is to scrape the dead sea life off those barbs. It is especially bad after storms when the water is rough and all manner of creature ends up pushed against the deadly hooks. We've even lost workers who were killed while clearing it off. There must be sections where the fence doesn't reach all the way to the sea bed, because how else would we still have fish to catch, or sharks for that matter? But no one has gone looking for them, not to my knowledge anyway. The Peacekeeper boats that patrol the area are enough to dissuade anybody.

I sit outside our door and must have fallen asleep at some point because when the sun is just cresting over the horizon, something nudges my bare foot and wakes me up. I open my eyes groggily and look up at Aster, one of the Peacekeepers that let me swim yesterday. He's eyeing me strangely and I smile foolishly back at him to dispel some of the awkwardness between us. He glances around but no one is about this early, so he sits down beside me. Aster is in his early twenties and has olive coloured skin that is not from this district. His eyes are a startling green and his black hair curls around his ears. I catch myself admiring the flat ridge of his nose and his high cheek bones that make his full lipped smile so fetching. We sit in silence until I can't bare it.

"Busy day today," I say and feel stupid for saying it, but Aster just shrugs.

"I guess," he replies, and turns to look me in the eye soberly.

I feel my cheeks warm and I try to smile even wider but the seriousness of today finally breaks my chipper veneer. I pull my knees to my chin and rest my forehead on them. My hands wrap themselves around my legs, but Aster takes one and holds it in both of his.

A month ago something unimaginable happened. A month ago, the sweet raven haired Peacekeeper – the one that sometimes turned a blind eye to let me go swimming, the one that smiled kindly at me and often caught my eye – jumped in after me. I had dived into the cool water, and was resting at the bottom when I saw the white plume of bubbles as someone sank down after me. I watched in horror as the plum dissipated to reveal the half naked body of the familiar Peacekeeper. He had stripped down to his underwear, and was staring right at me. He didn't swim closer but held up both hands in a sort of peaceful gesture. He meant no harm. We both pushed up to take another breath, and without a word we dove back down. When he finally came close to me it was to gently press his lips against mine. The next half hour followed in much the same silent pattern of going up for air and sinking back down to share our underwater kisses. When we had pushed our luck for time, he got out first and redressed. He was gone when I pulled myself up onto the dock. In the weeks that followed, we barely saw each other, let alone spoke. But occasionally, he would stop me and the rest of my crew to do a routine inspection of our boat and would linger when he talked to me. Once he even offered me his hand to exit the boat when I was getting off at the end of the day.

And now he is sitting next to me, holding me while I shake with fear.

"You'll be fine," he says, and his voice is strained because he is also trying to convince himself. "After today you'll never have to worry about it again."

I don't reply because what am I supposed to say? On top of the terror and confusion of the impending Reaping, I have now also been reminded of this thing that connects us in a way that is probably illegal. Peacekeepers do not mix with civilians. We don't marry each other, we don't live together. We barely acknowledge them except to be wary and they are here to keep us in line or arrest us. So even if I pass through this Reaping without being chosen, what difference can it make for the two of us? No difference at all.

I say none of this, but squeeze his hand to show that I've heard him – that I appreciate his concern. We sit in silence until I hear my parents coming alive inside the house. Aster lets go of my hand and stands with me, taking my face in his hands and looking me straight in the eye. His eyes are like grass after a rain. For the first time I notice the flecks of gold in their depths. It looks like he wants to say something, but he hesitates and just says, "Good luck."

I am left alone outside the house.

District Four's Reaping happens early in the day. Each broadcast takes about half an hour per district, and you can potentially watch them all live if you have the time. We don't watch the districts ahead of us. So until the _festivities_ begin at ten o'clock, I spend what could potentially be my last hours in District Four with my family. I bathe, I dress in my only good dress, and I sit with my parents and eat breakfast, though none of us are very hungry. We are all thinking about the year that Marcus was chosen as Tribute, of the last morning we spent with him, and how it wasn't enough. But what can we really say to each other now that each of us doesn't already know? Despite her anger the night before, my mother has made a point of holding my hand to show me she isn't really upset with me. Every once and a while my father pats my knee or passes a hand through my long straight hair, the way he did when I was little. There are no words for this, no way to make this light and happy; not until I am safe at home and we can celebrate my freedom from the Games.

At 9:30 they walk me to the Justice building, and I join the milling crowd of kids as we are corralled into lines to sign in. After that my parents are lost in the crown of people that have to watch from the side streets. There are enough of us kids that we alone fill the square. My name is in the lottery thirty times. Twice, I made my way to the Justice building to put in for a tessera for extra rations. Twice my father, who would have died before knowingly having me do this, gave me a tearful thrashing and wouldn't look at me for weeks. My parents are prideful people and the thought of adding your child's name to the lottery for rations disgusts them. But there have been two winters when even fish head stew was hard to come by, and I knew it was enter my name again or starve. I do not regret these actions.

After I check in, I shuffle along until I have found some familiar faces. Two of my old school friends are standing together and I join them. We don't speak, just nod in greeting and wait.

At ten o'clock on the nose, the mayor takes the stage with the surviving Victors (all but Annie) and the man who is to be the selected Tributes' escort, Rufus Bloom. He was new last year, but has changed so drastically since then that I barely recognize him. His plum if violet hair reminds me of the white wispy dandelion heads at the beginning of summer. I begin to wonder if someone blew hard enough, if the hair would float away in the wind. This year Rufus has adorned facial tattoos that actually look terrifying as they curl beneath his eyebrows, and I think the skin on his hands may be glittering. Strange piercings cover his ears and his nails are unnaturally long. After the usual speech from the Mayor, Rufus takes the stage to draw our names. If I were able to breathe, I might find it funny that his prosthetic nails are making it impossible to fish out one of the little white cards. But he gets it eventually and I stand there still not breathing. Cynthia from school grabs my elbow because either she's about to pass out or I am. With a flourish Rufus hops over to the microphone and calls out my name.

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Review if you pleeeeese! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Hunger Games!

This chapter is a little shorter, but I've already written more! I'm just trying to break it up into plausible chapters and keep ahead of myself a bit. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Two**

"Adeline Meer!"

Suddenly blood is rushing in my ears and I'm reminded of the moment just yesterday when the gaping mouth of the shark was bearing down on me. A cry from far off breaks through the silence, and it is my mother's outburst that brings me back to life. As I try to school my features while I walk up to the dais and take Rufus' offered hand, there is a broken sort of unenthused clap from the spectators and the kids below me. When it is time to call for District Four's boy Tribute, I don't recognize the name for which I am grateful. But when the twelve year old Kellen Hershel separates himself from the crowd I let out a groan. His curly blonde locks are tucked behind his ears and his bright blue eyes are swelling with tears. But it's his pinchable cheeks and visibly scraped knees that almost send me over the edge because he resembles Marcus on the day we watched him walk up to this same dais. I'm biting my lip so hard I taste blood, because to cry would appear weak.

Rufus calls for us to shake hands and then we are escorted to separate rooms in the Justice Building. I almost don't recognize the Peacekeeper beside me; almost don't register the hand on the small of my back until he is closing the door between us, gold-flecked eyes creased in pain. The door shuts and I'm left alone.

It happened so fast outside that my mind is only just starting to catch up with me. I slowly look around and realize that I have been in this room before, the day Marcus was shipped off to the Capitol. My breathing becomes shallow and the floor swings up to meet me as my legs give out. It's the sound of people approaching the room that makes me stand and sit myself down do that I won't feint in front of my parents. And then there they are, my mother is sitting beside me on the sofa and my father is kneeling in front of me. They are both pale beneath their sun tanned skin. My family has been through a lot over the years, and it is our life experiences that trigger each of our reactions once we are in this room together. My mother is smouldering in silent anger, squeezing my hand as much to reassure me as to hold me in the spot where her only other child was once taken away from her. My father is silent as well. He kisses my bare knee and then pulls my face toward him to kiss my forehead as well. We stay in this interlocked silent panic until I pull away from them and give a shaky smile. Standing, I hook a strand of sun bleached hair behind my ear and bubble with reassuring laughter.

"Think of the private beach we'll get when I come home!"

The door opens and our time is up. We hug once more and kiss each others cheeks. By the time I am alone again, I can no longer hold back tears.

I collapse back onto the sofa and shake with the effort of crying. I don't even notice when the door opens again and Aster is kneeling where my father had been just moments before. I just look into those eyes and realize that he is crying too. Suddenly our lips gently press together and his hands grasp my shoulders and stroke my hair. We hold onto each other desperately, and all I can think of is that brief moment under the sea's waves. Every touch, every glance; had there really been so many? I had subconsciously kept track all these weeks. And the confusion that accompanied them…It is still sitting in my chest but I know there has to be more to it.

Rufus can be heard down the hall and we reluctantly detach ourselves.

"I have to take you to the train," he tells me.

I just nod. What else am I supposed to do? The next time I come home it will be in a box, so this kiss and his sentiments will soon be nothing but a fond memory that might keep me sane until I step out into the arena.

"Do you trust me?"

Why does it matter? But he's looking at me so earnestly.

"Yes." It's strange but the second I say it I know I'm being honest.

He just nods and pulls me to my feet. In a second we are standing with Rufus, Kellen, and the Peacekeeper that had been guarding the boy's door. Together we walk out the back entrance and we Tributes and our escort are loaded into a car. I've never been in one, and the bumping makes me nauseous in a way that powering along in a boat never has. From the windows I can see Aster and his partner flanking us on motorized bikes. Beside me, Kellen looks impossibly young. He isn't crying anymore but is clearly in shock. Rufus won't shut up, and is actually asking us if either of us knows Finnick Odair personally. Kellen gives a curt shake of his head and I ignore the question outright. My mind is on Aster and our kiss.

When we pull up to the station I'm not prepared for the cameras and the shouting. Aster is at my door and is pulling me out, and suddenly a gun goes off and the crowd is going nuts. I've dropped to the ground but he is pulling me up and pushing me toward the train. _Trust me,_ he had said and so I cling to his hand wondering why we aren't loading into the silver train car. Instead we have broken into a run and he turns suddenly and lifts me up under my arms. He's pushed me through the gap of two of the train cars and it suddenly clicks that he is trying to help me escape the Games. I don't have time to even process this though because the white uniformed arm of another Peacekeeper reaches through the gap and pulls Aster back into the crowd. I turn in time to see him face his attacker as the butt of the other man's gun lands heavily against Aster's face. I scream his name and now I'm being pulled back too and shoved into a large man's arms. As I am loaded onto the train behind Kellen and Rufus, I turn and see three more Peacekeepers swarming and beating down viciously with the ends of their weapons as well.

I scream until the doors close and the speed of the massive locomotive takes us from the station.

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Aaand press that little REVIEW button my lovelies! I realize that escape attempt was a little rushed but I was having such a hard time getting it down that I finally just gave up and came to accept it would be disappointing hahaha!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

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Of the four remaining Victors from our district, only two accompany us as mentors. Megs is elderly and Annie is mentally unfit so Finnick Odair and a middle-aged guy by the name of Darius join us on their own. On the train it's clear that Kellen has attached himself to Odair, who is talking quietly to the boy, though the attractive Victor glances my way with worried eyes every so often.

I'm a little amazed that I've even noticed this because the second I could no longer see the chaos at the station from the large clear window, I have been tucked into a ball on one of the sofas staring glassily at nothing in particular. Darius tried to offer me something to drink at one point but has since given up. Rufus has been chattering non-stop about the excitement. He has somehow convinced himself that Aster was not a Peacekeeper, but a spurned lover. He doesn't even mention the violence, but goes on about the drama of it all. Eventually I can't stand to listen to him and leave the room in search of my quarters. An attendant steers me to my room and I don't even bother to acknowledge the grandeur of it. I just fall into the bed and mentally go over my last moments in District Four.

What did he plan to do if he stopped them from putting me on this train? How would we have gotten over the fence and then where would we have gone after that?

A couple of months ago the sight of Aster the Peacekeeper would have elicited nothing more than a passing glance. I bury my face into my pillow and hold my breath. No…even then we were doing some sort of dangerous waltz; sharing too many smiles, finding each other in a crowd far too often. But how had we possibly built up enough of this silent attraction to warrant him risking his life to save me from the possibility of losing mine? I exhale slowly and roll over. He is dead, I'm sure of it. I've never seen a Peacemaker do anything like that before, but they probably have a pretty standardized kill-rule for that kind of behaviour.

There is a gentle knock on my door and Darius calls out that it's time for lunch. I'm not very hungry but I will have to leave this room at some point and I had better try to make conversation with my mentors. We will be arriving in the Capitol in a matter of hours at which point, as Rufus informed us earlier in the car, we will be whisked away for makeovers. I can only guess what this will entail, but I assume doing it on an empty stomach wouldn't be advisable. I roll out of bed and inspect the wardrobe but decide to keep my own clothes on. I've worn this to every Reaping since I was twelve when it was far too big for me. Over the years I've grown much taller and have gained muscle from my work on the boats, so the frilly dress is too short but only slightly too tight. Even though we haven't been starving for a few years, I'm still very skinny. Still, I feel like I'm trying to look like a child but at the same time I think if I put on the clothing from the Capitol I might scream. So I clean up as best I can for lunch by scrubbing my hands and splashing my face with water, and then I go and join the others.

The food is luxurious, and I've never eaten anything like it before. Kellen is positively beside himself, gorging on sweet dessert cakes and soup made with rich cream. I abstain and nibble on a piece of salted bread, never having had the stomach for sweet foods (though I can count on one hand how many times we ever had any). I have my fill of the bread and take smaller samples of other foods until I am too full to eat another bite. The table is uncomfortably silent for all of five seconds before Rufus pipes up.

"You are going to adore the Capitol, my lovelies!"

And he's about to elaborate when Darius interrupts him without a second glance.

"Listen, you two," we both become intent on him and Rufus trails off with an indigent huff, "we need to decide right now how we are going to play this out. Sometimes the Tributes like to train together, other times not. You'll have your own stylists, and there two of us as Mentors so we can split that evenly too if you want."

Finnick nods and adds, "Now is the time to choose."

I glance at Kellen and am again struck by the resemblance to Marcus. I don't think I will be able to kill him if the time comes, and even if I could how would I face my district? I'm about to say that we should train together, but he looks at me and shakes his head.

"Separate," he says, and his voice isn't as child-like as I imagined it would be. Suddenly I'm looking at him without the overlap of Marcus and I see a boy on the cusp of becoming a man. He is small but he is wiry. He looks innocent to the world, but I can see stubbornness in his eyes. And no doubt he is looking at me and seeing the tall, athletic, and crazy fisher's daughter that jumped into the sea with hungry sharks and came out with nothing but a single cut. I look away from him and stare down at my bandaged palm in my lap. He's not Marcus and he doesn't want my protection. To him I am a threat like the others.

"Separate," I agree.

The two men nod as if they suspected this and Finnick offers to be Kellen's mentor. I'm not heartbroken, though I suspect other female Tributes might have been. He's very attractive but he's also very young. Darius has been mentoring for decades and I can't help but think my chances are better with him. Not to mention, Finnick Odair's stunning good looks are not exactly the first thing on my mind at the moment. In fact I'm currently engaged in an inner battle between trying to push thoughts of my family away and fighting off images of a mostly dead Aster at the same time. I try to pay attention to what Darius is saying to me.

"We'll be arriving shortly, at which point your stylist will have you until this evening. After dinner we can go over your strategy."

We move as a group to the next train car to watch a recap of the other Reapings. It is two o'clock and we start off by watching the live broadcast from District Twelve. The girl is thirteen and the boy is fifteen. As with most of the coal mining Tributes, they don't look like much and I silently guess neither of them will last long; underfed and ill advised. Haymitch Abernathy isn't even looking at them. He's got his head tucked between his knees and I think there is a vomit stain on the leg of his pants. I review my situation once more and realize things could be much worse. Darius has always been a competent mentor (he mentored Finnick and Annie, and Marcus but I refuse to think about it) and he isn't as notoriously damaged as most of the other winners. He's got a short fuse though, and I know I've seen him on some of his worse days back in Four, especially after Annie returned home. I've just got to keep him happy and he will do his best to keep me alive.

When we watch the recaps, I begin to gain confidence but lose heart. The majority of this year's Tributes are very young and I don't think I will ever be able to bring myself to killing them. Aside from me and the four Careers from One and Two, there is only one other Tribute who looks like a threatening contender. Standing beside the thirteen year old girl on the podium in District Ten, Armand Fleck is seventeen and made of muscle. As I look at him I get a sick feeling in my stomach because he's actually smiling. He volunteered and I doubt it was for sentimental reasons. The Capitol is going to absolutely love him.

We stick around and watch clips from last year's Games and a review of the commentators' favourite kills. Eventually Kellen leaves in search of his own bed, followed by a pale faced Finnick, but I remain glued to the screen. Darius left a while ago but returns now with two glasses partially filled with dark pink liquor and ice. He hands one to me and I sip it dubiously while he turns off the screen.

"What are you thinking?"

I'm thinking that this drink tastes very good compared to the garbage they sell back home.

"The other Tributes," I say instead because it was true a moment ago.

"I'm not saying you won't have to take any of them out," Darius says slowly, "but you don't have to get right into the Bloodbath either. By the looks of them, that's where most will…finish."

Yeah, I thought as much too but I also know not to underestimate these kids. Hadn't I done that already with Kellen? And hadn't I seen that I was wrong just by giving my head a shake and seeing him for who he really is? Some of these people might be very skilled in areas that I am not.

Darius is looking at my hand and I let him roll the bandage away. The cut is flaming red and opened again at some point in the day. He sends an attendant to get another bandage and when she returns he freshly dresses the wound.

"I heard about this about an hour after you got off that boat," he laughs quietly. "When I heard your name get called this morning I thought, 'Well, hell, I got me a shark fighter!'. You've got guts."

I shake my head. "That wasn't bravery that was stupidity, and fear of my wages being garnished for the rest of my life. I almost got bitten in two for a Capitol owned trident that wouldn't have cost them a thing to actually replace."

"Call it what you want, but I doubt any of your competition would jump in shark infested waters for a weapon."

He's probably right about that.

When we finally do roll into the Capitol, I am struck by one thing. In the sea of colour that greets us at the station – screaming fans of the Hunger Games – I find myself looking for the familiar white uniforms of the Peacekeepers but find hardly any. They're around, but given the immense size and reaction of the crowd I expected to see hordes of them toting menacing looking guns to keep people in check. The ones that I do see seem to be more intent on our train than on the people surrounding it.

Back home the amount of Peacekeepers is frightening. The fences are patrolled night and day, and the water is scoured by twenty Capitol boats at any given time. Because it is a four day travel from the shore to the barbed fence, they take all precautions. Even if a crew was to try and stay out on the water longer than their shift allowed, they would be caught within days and killed in the square. I've seen this happen. Additionally, there is little amity between us and them. It is rare to meet a friendly one, and rarer still to return the niceties. This is exactly why the other Peacekeepers reaction to Aster's outburst at the train station was slow. They must have thought he was defending himself somehow from one of us at first. If they knew what had been happening between us before the Reaping we would have both been publicly executed.

It suddenly occurs to me that his superiors may have come to their own conclusions about what was going on. They may have even forced him to explain himself before they inevitably killed him. I could be in even more danger in the Games than I initially thought if the Capitol intends to use the event to get rid of me.

By the time we are escorted off the train I am trembling uncontrollably. I try to cover this up by smiling and waving to these euphoric idiots but I am truly terrified.

Because if another Tribute doesn't kill me, I'm certain the Gamemakers will.

Once again Kellen and I are separated when we reach the building where we will be living and training for the next few days. A trio of flamboyant looking people greets me with a frightening number of strange looking grooming tools and several bowls of curious smelling substances. If anything, this new set of horrors has temporarily distracted me from my misgivings about the Gamemakers. One of the team members lushes over the length of my hair, which ends just below my shoulders, but bemoans the colour. Blonde, I am told, is boring. They only trim it though and move onto my eye brows and face. My freckles are apparently ghastly but there isn't really time for the bleaching treatment to rid me of them, so they assure me that make-up will cover the worst of the spots. I'm still young so my skin hasn't taken too much abuse from the harsh sea elements, but the team still scrubs me down until I'm pink and new. They all squeal in horror at the cut on my hand and an attendant is called instantly to swath it in goo and rewraps it. When my Stylist comes to examine their work I am shiny, virtually hairless, and cleaner than I have ever been. Gigi flutters her feathered eyelashes at me and has me stand and turn for her on the spot, completely in the nude.

She is so much shorter than me despite her ridiculous heeled shoes that I can't help but laugh out loud. All four of them laugh too (though I don't think at anything in particular) and exclaim that they are all so happy to have gotten such a bubbly Tribute this year. I have been incredibly lackluster since my name was called this morning and I find it strange that a few smiles and one laugh makes me bubbly, but then Gigi tells me that last year's Tributes could not stop crying right up until they were thrown into the arena. My polite smile fades. Our last two kids were both twelve and one of them wasn't well mentally. The sight of his confused face as he stepped off his platform early was enough to start a small riot at home. Seven men were killed the morning that little boy died. One of them was his father.

For the rest of my session with Gigi I am intentionally sullen and extremely unpleasant. I have spent years of my life trying to make others happy in the face of hardship, but these people have no adversity in their lives and so I refuse to smile and giggle and go right along with them as they groom me for slaughter. When Rufus finally arrives to bring Kellen and me to our suit, I brush past Gigi so abruptly that she is thrown off balance and lands in a heap. She actually starts to bawl like an infant but I don't look back and just walk right to the elevator where Darius is standing.

"Making friends I see," he says, and I think he's trying not to smile.

"Can we just go?" I ask, but I do actually feel a lot better now. We don't wait for Rufus who is trying to console Gigi while Kellen stands awkwardly at his side. Maybe Finnick will come get him if they don't come up soon.

We step off the elevator on the fourth floor and Darius gives me a tour of the apartment. He stayed here once, I remember, but technology has probably changed since then. I only guess this, because at home we still watch the same television that was originally installed in our small rickety house and have received no technological advancements in years.

In my room I am forced to choose Capitol clothing to wear because my dress disappeared quickly after my makeover began. Unless I want to wander around in this sheer robe for the next few days, I have to pick something. I pull on a pair of skin tight cotton pants and a loose airy shirt that reaches my thighs and leaves my shoulders bare. It's probably the most comfortable thing I've ever worn but I will never admit that out loud.

Dinner is subdued as Kellen seems intent on ignoring my existence and, according to Rufus, Gigi has refused to join us. In some kind of stand against my evil ways, Kellen's stylist has also decided to dine elsewhere tonight. This is okay with me, and no one else from District Four seems to care, but Rufus is genuinely wounded by my behaviour.

"You know, I've dealt with some real savages from the outer districts in my time, but what you did was just horrid! I expected more out of District Four!" He stares me down from his seat at the long table but I don't give him the light of day. He doesn't need it. "And quite frankly, I don't suppose you think this is going to get you any sponsors once the word gets out how poorly you treated someone who is only trying to help you look your best!"

Oh yeah, sponsors. That strikes a chord but I don't show it. Darius and Finnick however have stopped eating and are now listening to what our escort has to say.

"And Gigi is one of the very best and just look how you thanked her for that!"

All Gigi did today was look at me while I was naked, but I concede to the fact that our Tributes haven't looked completely laughable the years that she had the job. And unless I want to show up in the chariot wearing the most hideous getup that Gigi can think of, I had better think of an apology. I put down my spoon and look at Rufus. I give him the most repentant look I can muster and plead with him to send Gigi up to the apartment after dinner.

He agrees but I think he only wants to have a winner this year and he isn't seeing it in Kellen. Rufus knows that my first appearance during the chariot rides will be what gets the attention of potential sponsors and we both know for that I need Gigi.

After dinner, Darius takes me out to the sitting room to go over my strategy before the Stylist arrives for my request for forgiveness.

"We need to figure out how to play your interview before we figure out how to play the arena," he tells me. "Will you be sexy? Fierce? Mysterious? Clever?"

I think this over and I guess that out of the four I could probably pull off clever. But I'm too skinny and flat chested to be sexy and I doubt any of us are going to able to out-fierce the boy from Ten.

"What about likeable?" I ask but I know it sounds wrong. "I could gush about the Capitol, simper and smile over the opportunity I've been given…"

I've seen Tributes do this in the past and have always been disgusted by the idea of thanking our killers. But now that I'm looking at my options, I realize why they do it. One word: sponsors. Darius doesn't seem to like the idea any more than I do though.

"What about fearless?" he suggests. "You swim with sharks recreationally, you joy ride on the high seas; how can someone without fear lose?"

I roll my eyes at the exaggerations but have to admit it sounds better than blatant flattery.

"Fearless…" I'm not confirming anything I'm just saying it out loud.

Suddenly Darius looks haggard and I think about how hard this must be on him to go through this every year. It's true that District Four often has Career Tributes because the nature of our work makes us strong and usually good with a knife or a spear, but we don't have nearly as many volunteers as One and Two. Add that to a rather high population of children between the ages of ten and fifteen, and we've had exceptionally back luck at the last several Reapings. Worse still for Darius who has a young son who must sit through them and pray he doesn't get chosen. As it turns out, I'm actually the first Tribute over the age of fourteen in five years. This realization sinks in my stomach like a stone because everyone at home must be expecting me to return.

Talk about pressure.

Me and Darius look at each other and I'm pretty sure we are both on the same page at this point.

"I wouldn't want your job," I say with earnest.

He gives me the saddest look I have ever seen cross his lined face. "If you survive this, it's yours hon."

Which of course I know, only I had been thinking of this as a death sentence and hadn't even considered that as a possibility. We both kind of laugh in a bout of unified defeat. No one is ever really a winner in these Games. I feel comforted that we both share this strange reaction. Somehow it makes me feel less alone.

I wish that I could tell him about Aster but I'm no fool. You can bet there are cameras and recording devices throughout the apartment. We never see it on the broadcasts, but it would be stupid of the Capitol not to keep an eye on us. At any rate, Gigi walks through the door and I can't spill my heart out to my mentor even if I wanted to.

It takes me half an hour to talk Gigi down from her tower of Adeline-hate, but we get there eventually and I find myself hugging her and trying not to stick my eye out with her outrageous hairdo. I smile and simper and do and say everything I would have said and done had we decided to go with 'likeable' for my interview. In my head I am hoping that I see as little of her as possible after this because I just don't think I can handle the sucking up.

Because District Four is so much closer to the Capitol than most of the others, we arrive almost a full day earlier than those from Twelve. While these Tributes are presumably receiving their star treatments, those of us that arrived yesterday have nothing to do but wait in the apartments until the Opening Ceremonies tonight. Our mentors waste no time in coaching us with our strategies. When I ask Darius if this extra time gives us an advantage over the other Tributes, he shakes his head.

"Some of them have had very long train rides here. They've had nearly as much time as you."

By mid afternoon I'm wishing we had arrived later as well. We've worked out the details of how I'm supposed to act in and out of the arena, but eventually we all need a break. I can't stand this sitting around and waiting. My stomach is in knots and I have to lock myself in the bathroom several times to be sick. So much for fearless. This hurry up and wait to die mentality is going to kill me before I even enter the arena. I haven't seen Kellen all day but by the way he picks at his food at lunch, I assume he isn't doing much better. Finally Gigi arrives with Kellen's stylist and our style teams and we are separated again to get dressed for our big debut.

In my bedroom I am poked and prodded, dabbed and brushed. My hair is teased and sprayed until I have a wild mane that is pulled back from the hair line. Layers have been cut into it and sea shells have been woven through a few of the thick strands, so that when I move they rustle together like the wind chimes we make at home. My natural tan has been further bronzed and intricate blue makeup wings out from my eyes and even covers my pale eyebrows. My lips are painted a pale sea-foam green and my shoulders and midriff have been adorned with shining blue sequins. In the light I look like sun reflecting beneath the water. My lean muscles are exaggerated with clever shading, and I find myself impressed by the effect. When the bandage is taken off my hand, I am shocked at the pale pink scar that is barely visible. We do not have medicine like this in Four.

My outfit leaves little to the imagination, and I flush when I see it in Gigi's arms. It's a combination of flimsy gold netting and green material that I suppose is meant to look like seaweed. I pull on the seaweed top and it barely covers even my tiny breasts, followed by the matching bottoms which are smaller than any underwear I've ever worn. My team then fits the netting around me, making it appear as though I've just torn though it. A necklace of shark teeth is placed around my neck and a light weight trident (much taller and menacing looking than the one I use at home) is put in my hands. I am to be barefoot. I look in the full length mirror and a beautifully savage beast stares back at me. I look like a creature from a myth. Like the sirens in the old bedtime tales who lure men out to sea to kill them. A naked siren, that is.

My team leaves me then and Rufus escorts Kellen and me down to the Remake Centre for the Opening Ceremonies. Kellen looks like a small male version of me. He wears the green underwear and is swathed in gold nets. We have similar makeup on our faces and they have made his curls unruly. He would look truly ferocious if it isn't for the fact that he doesn't even reach my shoulder. That and the matching trident in his hands make him look laughable. It makes him look small and childish. Suddenly I'm afraid that we both look ridiculous in these getups and that we won't impress anyone. No sooner does that thought cross my mind when the Tributes from Eleven walk in. Stalks of corn can in no way be represented attractively. I silently thank Gigi because while the rest of the arriving Tributes aren't all dressed silly costumes, most are and we are still able to hold a candle to One and Two who have looked stunning every year.

The entire debut seems to fly by. I haven't paid attention to the speeches or the crowds. I haven't been watching the screens at all. All night I size up my opponents, and try to get a better look at the biggest threats. Alabaster from One is a block of muscle, as is his female counterpart Jewel. They flex as their chariot flies past me and I know they will be a problem. Silver, from Two is just as tall as I am and is deceptively thin. I suspect any hand to hand fight between the two of us would result in a stalemate, we are that similarly built, though he has a crazed look in his eye that I don't trust. The girl from Two, Star, has an intensely smug look on her face but I'm confused as to why she volunteered. She's small, and doesn't appear to be terribly athletic. I can feel her confidence from here though and am instantly suspicious. And then of course, there is Armand who is managing to look like a total lunatic in his corn costume.

The rest are just little kids and I don't consider them for long because I dread the moment when I might have to kill one of them. Every once and a while I catch one glancing my way, eyes flitting away quickly when they realize I've seen them doing it. I must look like a monster to them, and soon I start to feel like one.

Finally the show is over and we are ushered back up to our apartments. The evening has been so busy that I haven't thought about home in hours, but as I stand beneath the hot shower trying to scrub off the bronzer and sequins, my mind turns to Aster being beaten down by the other Peacekeepers. I think back to the confusion I felt whenever we caught each other's eye in the square, or of the times he lingered to speak to me at the harbour. I remember the times he let me swim freely, and the one time that he joined me. I have countless memories of him and a confused tangle of warmth that flutters in my stomach whenever I picture his face. Is it possible to fall in love with someone who is a stranger? I think he was in love with me, to risk what he did. It's this thought that really brings it home for me. My district has been given a competent Tribute after years of painful deaths; they will be hoping for a triumph for Four. Aster very probably gave his life in the hope of ensuring I kept mine.

I fall asleep with this heart tightening thought in mind.

* * *

Hmmmm...I'm afraid this is running a little slow for a fanfiction BUT I was hoping to keep the same tone of the books. So believe me, I'm already well ahead of this! I've been writing none stop and have another two chapters ready. Adeline will be arriving in the arena soon! And as always: REVIEW!


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